


Cutmen

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Bleed So Pretty: A Collection of Fight!lock Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Bleeding, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Fight!lock, Fighting Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Pinching, Punching, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Scratching, Unsafe Sex, burking, how could I forget the biting?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John first met when they were first-time opponents at an underground fight club. Several weeks later, they meet again, but neither of them can get on the night's schedule, so an unsanctioned bout in the car park will have to serve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutmen

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Катмен](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316017) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)
  * Inspired by [Five Times Sherlock And John Met Cute (And One That Was Decidedly Un-cute)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288150) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> Cover art! The lovely and talented and kind Ghislainem70 has created a cover for the Bleed So Pretty series! http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/3864190 Go give her a million kudos! x0x0
> 
> Listen to the podfic by Holly!: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1908420 She also deserves all the kudos in the world; spread the love.

John was too late.

“Bloody hell! Are you sure I can’t--?”

“No. Impossible. Dance card’s full.” Sherlock was just inside the door, back to the wall, collecting the passwords and the admission fees. He gestured toward the center of the dank basement room, where there was already a fight in progress, a well-coiffed middle-management type pummeling the stuffing out of a young lad whose pants rode so low they must be hobbling him at the knees.

“Dammit,” John fumed. He fished in his billfold for cash. “Fucking late. . .work— _thing_ ,” he added futilely. He passed Sherlock his money. “How about you, then?” he asked, jerking his head toward the ring questioningly.

“I was supposed to break in a newbie, but after the second bout ended with a compound wrist fracture, he was carried out in a swoon.” Sherlock folded John’s contribution into the pile of bills in his hand.

They watched the fight in between the shoulders and bobbing heads of the crowd for a bit, then John ventured, “So, the rib. Broken, was it?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock hissed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Tonight was to be my first night back, actually.”

“Sorry about your man’s weak stomach, then,” John conceded, not exactly apologetically. “You must be spoiling for a fight by now.”

“Indeed I am.”

A whistle blew; the middle-manager had knocked out the chav kid and the night’s master of ceremonies was raising the winner’s hand. John and Sherlock applauded; John whistled. He leaned closer to Sherlock and pointed at his own eyebrow.

“If it’s any consolation,” John said, “I had to put four sutures in there.”

Sherlock examined the still pink and raw-looking scar running north-to-south across John’s eyebrow. Sherlock clapped John on the back of the shoulder. “A token of my esteem,” he offered. “It was a good bout.”

“Agreed,” John said.

Something like mischief dawned across Sherlock’s face. “You’re drunk,” he said urgently. John looked puzzled. Sherlock gave him a look, then turned to a man standing nearby and said, “This one’s had too many for me to let him in tonight; I’m going to point him toward home.”

John, catching on, unfocused his gaze and started to sway. Belligerently, he yelled, “Whaddaya fucking _mean_ I’m too fucking late to get a fight?!”

Sherlock pressed the collected admission fees into the man’s hand and the man nodded, moved closer to the door.

“Right, mate, let’s get you a taxi,” Sherlock said to John, his eyes gleaming.

“Fuck off!” John shouted. Sherlock grabbed him by the back of the neck and the upper arm, hard, and steered him toward the door. John struggled in his grip, threw an elbow that Sherlock easily avoided. He dug his fingers so hard into John’s arm John felt his tricep muscle shifting on the bone.

Outside, Sherlock reached into his hip pocket and handed John back his money, and then some. John laughed, pocketed it. Sherlock pocketed a handful, as well.

“John Watson, by the way,” he said.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John drew back. “What? _The_ Sherlock Holmes? The detective?”

Sherlock looked pleased, if a little apprehensive. “The same,” he verified.

“I’ve read your website,” John said, “It’s shit.” Sherlock frowned. “No, really. Tobacco ash? What the fuck is all that about?” John demanded, smiling.

“It’s interesting.”

John shook his head. “It’s really not.”

They walked away from the building a bit, out from under one of the parking lot’s lamps into the shadows, closer to the chain-link fence separating the car park from the rail tracks.

“Some of the other stuff on there’s interesting,” John allowed. “Not the ash, though.”

“If you’re trying to get me to punch you, I assure you I’ve heard all of this too many times before to get worked up about it now.”

“I wasn’t trying to, actually,” John said, “But now that you mention it.” He pressed his fist into his opposite hand, then switched them. Sherlock took off his watch and slipped it into his trousers pocket.

“Tell me first, though, what you think you know,” John challenged in a low, dangerous voice. “About me.”

They were circling each other, slowly, sizing each other up. Sherlock tilted his head a bit and said blandly, “Ex-military, judging by the way you carry yourself, and a combat veteran--that scar on your shoulder is obviously from a bullet wound. Sutured your own eyebrow, so you’re probably a doctor—“

John hummed.

“Or a nurse,” Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Fuck off.”

“You live alone. Split time between two different clinics, one here in London, the other a four-or-more hour train’s journey from here--maybe Edinburgh?--so you rent rooms in both places. You have chronic insomnia, and you crave dramatic physical stimuli.” Sherlock gestured behind them, toward the building that housed the club. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” John echoed.

“And you want to punch me. And you want to knock me down. And,” Sherlock finished levelly, “you want to fuck me.”

John growled in a way that made Sherlock know he was not wrong. John’s fists slowly clenched and unclenched, squaring up in front of his chest.

Sherlock went on, unflinching. “And now you’re feeling exposed, so I’ll be kind, and tell you what I want.” Sherlock’s voice got lower, quieter. “I want you to tackle me. And I want you to bite me. And I want you to get down on your knees and suck my cock.”

“Ain’t happening, mate,” John said coolly.

Sherlock shrugged. “Best two takedowns out of three?” he offered.

John nodded, once. “Let’s go.”

Before John had time to breathe or even blink, Sherlock was on him, exploiting a weakness he’d discovered in their first fight. He charged John down low, swung one leg around the back of John’s knee, and used leverage and surprise to his advantage. Instantly, John was flat on his back with one bent arm trapped beneath his own body, Sherlock’s knee pinning the other arm. Both his shoulders were immobilized against the ground. Sherlock huffed three heavy breaths—one. . .two. . .three—counting John out. He half-smiled and leaned away so that John could free his pinned arms.

“It’s a pretty face you’ve got,” John muttered, as they both got back on their feet. “Even prettier with a bruise in the shape of my knuckles on it.”

“Ooh.” Sherlock blew out the sound through puckered lips: an invitation.

John swung a wide left; Sherlock leaned back and out of the way, grinning as if he’d already won. John landed a quick right uppercut to Sherlock’s midsection that knocked the grin off his face and stole his breath. Taking advantage, he jabbed at Sherlock’s jaw, which made him stagger sideways. John lunged, trapping both Sherlock’s arms in a bear-hug, and dragged him to the ground, where they rolled over and over each other, grappling for the upper hand, which ended with John straddling Sherlock’s chest, jabbing at his face--one-two, one-two.  Sherlock’s lip split prettily and started to bleed.

“One-all,” John said, and caught Sherlock’s jaw in his hand, turned his head back and forth to examine his handiwork. Sherlock’s eyes sparked with fury, with arousal, and John slapped his cheek soundly before backing away, letting Sherlock up.

This time neither of them waited. As soon as Sherlock got his feet under him, he swung roundly, landing a fist against John’s upper chest. John let go a grunt upon the impact, and went again at Sherlock’s face with a right. Sherlock feinted out of the way, kicked John’s shin, slammed an elbow down in the juncture of neck and shoulder, bringing John to his knees.

“Oh, yes. . .” Sherlock hissed, and turned his head long enough to spit a mouthful of blood onto the tarmac. John sprang back to his feet, charged at Sherlock, caught him with one forearm across his chest and shoved him back against a metal fencepost, which rang like a bell. John held him there—Sherlock struggled, but not as much as he might have—and with his free hand, John went for Sherlock’s trousers, tugging at the front placket until the hook came free and the button flew.

Sherlock snarled, punched the side of John’s face. He worked himself free from John’s grip and slid around and behind him. He stamped one foot firmly against the back of John’s knee, then slammed his elbow straight down against John’s newly exposed shoulder. John crumpled to his knees again, and Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John’s hair, tugged his head back until John was looking straight up into Sherlock’s face. John’s eyes were furious and dark, verging on wild, and Sherlock stared straight into them as he dragged his tongue lasciviously across his bleeding lip. John moaned, struggled against Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock held him fast, stepped around in front of him, tried to drag John’s face toward his crotch.

John chopped the outer edge of his hand against Sherlock’s lower thigh, and the shock of it made him let go of John’s hair. Sherlock recovered quickly, though, clamped his hands firmly on John’s shoulders and shoved him backward to the ground with all his might, pinned him there with locked arms as he loomed above. John swung a roundhouse punch at Sherlock’s torso, clearly aiming for the same rib he’d broken during their first fight.

“Dirty,” Sherlock scolded through clenched teeth, and maneuvered one knee to pin John’s right shoulder.

“Fucking right,” John growled. He struggled, punched again at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock shook his head, pinned John’s left shoulder with his right knee. Holding John’s gaze steadily, unflinching, Sherlock rocked his head left to right, mimicking the rhythm of the count. _One. Two. Three._

“Oh, look at that,” Sherlock murmured, swiping the back of his hand across his bleeding lip, dragging a red-black trail from the corner of his mouth across his cheek  and down onto the blade-edge of his jaw. “I win.” He moved his knees, kneeling fully on John’s chest in a way he knew was dangerous. Despite the fact he’d clearly taken John down and the bout should be over, Sherlock demanded, “Tap out.”

John’s voice was raspy with lost breath. “Fuck you.”

“Tap out,” Sherlock repeated, and shifted his weight. “You’re a doctor, you know what could happen here.” He gestured to his knees on John’s chest.

“You won’t fucking burke me to death,” John gasped, and he was smiling but panic crept in around the edges of his eyes. “I haven’t even sucked you off yet.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Sherlock said, and slid off the side of John’s chest, then clambered to his feet. He offered John a hand up. John took it, got up as far as kneeling and no further. He gripped Sherlock’s hand so tightly he felt bones grinding, yanked it close, and bit down on Sherlock’s knuckles. The reply came in the form of the back of Sherlock’s hand smashing across John’s cheek, making his teeth rattle.

John shoved hard at Sherlock’s hipbones with the flats of his hands, and the fence sang out a shimmering ring as Sherlock’s back landed against it. Even as John scrambled forward, Sherlock grabbed at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. John’s hand—flat, stretched, fingers splayed—slid up along the front of Sherlock’s torso, shoving his shirt up as it went, and John went ferociously at the newly-exposed skin above Sherlock’s waistband with his teeth, scraping, pressing, digging in, then stroking the flat of his tongue over each newly- bitten spot as he moved along Sherlock’s hip and low belly. Sherlock grunted and gasped and dug his bony fingers into John’s scalp, urging his head closer to his crotch.

John obliged, yanking Sherlock’s zip down roughly and reaching into the placket to take ahold of Sherlock’s cock, which was fully swollen, oozing fluid from the tiny slit. Sherlock sucked in his breath as John began roughly to tug and rub his cock from base to tip. John leaned close and gnawed at the soft skin of Sherlock’s belly just above the tangle of his pubic hair.

Sherlock let out a crying moan and slammed both hands back against the fence, gripping the rusty metal links with scrabbling fingers. John’s palm had by now become slick with Sherlock’s pre-cum and his hand slipped more freely along Sherlock’s length. Under Sherlock’s shirtfront, John’s hand sought his pectoral muscle, raked fingernails across it, squeezed it, found his nipple, pinched, pulled. Sherlock bit down on a noise that was so much like a sob, and reached for John’s head again, his long palm braced against the base of John’s skull, urging him closer.

“Suck it,” Sherlock demanded.

John let go of Sherlock’s cock, reached both hands behind Sherlock’s waist and tugged his trousers further, baring his ass. John dug in with his fingernails, low on Sherlock’s back, and scraped downward, hard, leaving burning trails in the wake of his movement. Sherlock sucked his teeth, grabbed John by the chin. He wrapped his other hand around his own cock and yanked John’s face forward. John struggled against Sherlock’s grip, trying to pull his head back. Sherlock stroked the slick head of his cock from one corner of John’s closed mouth, across his pursed lips, to the other. John hummed, squeezed Sherlock’s ass with both hands, but refused to let his lips part.

“You want me to make you,” Sherlock said, a falsely-inflected question.

John hummed again--some mixture of arousal, agreement, and denial, all at once--and in a flash, Sherlock released John’s chin and punched him just below his eye, making his second knuckle ache instantly where the two bones met. John let go a loud gasp of pain, and Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s head, shoved his cock into John’s open mouth. Sherlock rocked his hips violently, making John gag and struggle for breath.

John dug the fingers of one hand into the cleft of Sherlock’s ass, scraping and scratching at the sensitive skin there, and his other hand wrestled for control of Sherlock’s cock, but Sherlock held himself fast, thrusting into John’s mouth, pulling him close with one hand in John’s hair. John slapped Sherlock’s hip, trying to shock him.

“Take it,” Sherlock panted, ignoring the stinging skin of his hip. “You can take it.” He slid his hand back toward his body, exposing more of his length, then rammed his prick deeper into John’s mouth, soft and hot and wet as a wound. “Good boy.”

Sherlock’s trousers had by now slipped down around his knees, and John dug all ten fingers deep and hard into the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, pressing so forcefully that Sherlock could feel the ache of each spot blooming into a bruise beneath John’s hands. Sherlock moaned deeply, an unfurling breath of agony, rising with pleasure at the very end, for John had willed his throat open and relaxed, then began sliding his tongue in unpredictable, velvety swirls against Sherlock’s thrusting cock. Sherlock let his fingers slide through John’s hair, along his scalp down to the back of his neck, for a moment stroking gentle encouragement. He kept thrusting forward, though, in a harsh drumbeat pattern that John still struggled to keep up with, even as he now applied suction, paused to release an appreciative groan, then resumed sucking and licking and swallowing around Sherlock’s insistent, jabbing prick.

John released his grip on Sherlock’s thighs, slid one hand up and around to roll Sherlock’s balls in his hand, now and then to squeeze or tug at them, reminding Sherlock this was no love affair they were having. John pressed one finger of his other hand between Sherlock’s cheeks and pressed against his opening, which made Sherlock squirm and yelp, and broke his rhythm.

He pinched hard at the skin of John’s neck with two fingers and a thumb. “No,” he scolded, and tried to squirm away from John’s impending invasion. John winced briefly away from the pain, but kept his finger where it was, pressed harder, proving his point.

“Make me come, now,” Sherlock shout-whispered, his voice ragged and edged with danger. “Be a good boy and make me come, straight down your throat.”

John moaned around Sherlock’s cock, then sealed his lips tight around it; Sherlock thrust into him relentlessly. The vibration of John’s voice made Sherlock catch his breath.

John gripped Sherlock’s hips with both hands--squeezing hard until the skin beneath his fingertips turned white--moaned loudly in time with Sherlock’s thrusts, raked his fingernails down Sherlock’s thighs, and then Sherlock was coming with a shout stifled against the heel of his hand, John fighting to keep control of his breath, tamping down his urge to gag as Sherlock’s thick, salty come flooded his mouth and throat with heat, oozing out the corners of his mouth though he struggled to swallow it. As Sherlock rode the last wave of his orgasm with a hard thrust forward against John’s face, he pinched John’s ear, then yanked the hair at the crown of his head, then shoved his face away, hard. John fell back and sideways, the palm of his hand scraping across the tarmac as he caught himself.

Sherlock’s face cycled through several expressions, settled on something like smug triumph, and he yanked up his trousers and pulled up the zip. He offered John a hand up, and this time John used it rise all the way to his feet. John adjusted his erection through his trousers. Sherlock spat blood at the ground again.

“You might need that lip sewn up,” John offered.

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock replied, tucking in his shirttails. “If I let you near it, you’d probably sew my mouth shut.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” John agreed grimly, and stepped close to Sherlock, not touching him, but pinning him against the fence with the force of his presence. “But then you couldn’t return the favour.” John leaned in close to Sherlock’s face, brushed his moist bottom lip against Sherlock’s swollen, bleeding one.

“Ain’t happening, mate,” Sherlock intoned with a smirk, echoing John’s earlier assertion. “Best two of three. I won.”

John trapped Sherlock’s thin wrist in the circle of one hand, guided Sherlock’s hand to his crotch, stroked Sherlock’s palm up and down along his length through his trousers-front. Sherlock stared at him with his pale eyes luminous in the half-light, strained cursorily against John’s grip, but ultimately curled his hand and fingers to fit the shape of John’s cock. John pressed closer to him, his hip against Sherlock’s, and rocked against Sherlock’s hand, his pelvis, grinding into him. Both of them heaved thick breaths in time with the motion of their bodies. With only a few harsh thrusts against Sherlock, John was coming, and he sank his teeth into the hollow of Sherlock’s neck where it met his shoulder. Sherlock let out a delicious whine that made John swallow a groan from low in his own throat, now raw and sore, the muscles of his neck aching.

John gasped twice, shuddered from neck to knee, then recovered and straightened up again, setting his shoulders squarely and moistening his lips with his tongue. All at once, he was laughing, a breathy, self-satisfied sort of chortle that shrugged his shoulders and made him press his fist to his mouth. He shook his head.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, stepping away from the fence, looking toward the building, where men were beginning to stream out into the car park, talking, laughing, a few shouting, several bleeding, one being supported by two others with their shoulders under his armpits.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said ruefully. “The famous detective Sherlock Holmes, with the shit website.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, said nothing.

“Thought you’d see through it right away.”

“See through what?” Sherlock asked, sounding increasingly annoyed.

“Best two of three,” John said, and shook his head again. He paused, then delivered the _coup de grace_ : “I threw it.”

“What?”

“I threw it. I threw the fight.”

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I pinned you.”

John huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, you pinned me.”

“I fucking _did_ ,” Sherlock insisted. John nodded, frowning, skeptical. “It was easy.”

“Of course.” John challenged with a smirk. “And why was it easy?”

Sherlock’s face didn’t give away a thing, but there was a hesitation to his voice as he said, “Rematch, then.”

“Any time,” John agreed.

Sherlock glanced away, then back at John. “I’ve a first aid kit, back at mine,” Sherlock said, jutting his chin off to the west, beyond the rail tracks. “You can suture my lip.” Sherlock started to walk off in the direction he’d indicated. After a few seconds, John cleared his sore throat, smoothed his hand through his hair, and followed.

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> A "cutman" is the fella in a boxer's corner whose job it is to fix up wounds and staunch bleeding between rounds.
> 
>  
> 
> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com for fight-y goodness and related bloodsport.  
> PoppyAlexander-fic.tumblr.com for other fic updates and things that catch my fancy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Body And Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573769) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander)
  * [[Podfic] Cutmen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908420) by [Holly (HHarris)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/pseuds/Holly)




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